


Loathsome Dogs

by thefudge



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, a combo of both, brotp with a hint of smth else, not exactly platonic either, not exactly romantic, or master/apprentice, twisted big brother little sister dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:11:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1429765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya and Sandor are stopping for no one. Maybe only for each other. 4x01 compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Let's get one thing straight, girl. I'm not gonna chase you if you run. You'll die here or a mile from here and I'll ride by your corpse and say "she was another stupid Stark who died for nothing." That's what I'm gonna do."

Arya listens and holds the reins of her new steed with fury barely concealed behind knuckles. Fury and exhilaration. She is living on that high after you've spilt fresh blood and she can't bear to hear the Hound.

She looks beyond him at the dark road and smiles.

The Hound shakes his head.

"You listening, girl?"

"No." Her answer is curt and soft at the same time. A sweet insult. She has no time for him. She is selfish and she is alone.

The Hound laughs sarcastically.

"The little lady killed a couple of rats and now she thinks she's a warrior."

"I don't want to be a warrior." Her head snaps in his direction and her eyes dissect him mercilessly. _Are **you** a warrior? I didn't think so._

Sandor feels a sharp pain at the top of his head, exhaustion, annoyance, or perhaps a strange sadness at the sight of this beautiful monster-child. Or all of those at once.

_Fuck it. She's not my problem._

That seems to be the motto with her. She is separate from him and free. She does not live inside his thoughts like her sister does. 

Sansa is never too far, always in his hands and scars. She makes him feel dead and knightly. A noble lord buried in the godswood while she weeps at the tombstone. 

Arya Stark makes him feel alive and dirty, a loathsome dog who sleeps where he kills and eats where he shits. Because she's wretched and dirty, like him.

It's a relief to be seen as you are. And a fucking nightmare.

They both ride towards the darkening sky.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Did you mean that? When you said it?”

They had stopped at a clearing that did not look directly onto the road but was not far away either. Their horses needed rest and so did they. Although you couldn’t tell by looking at Arya. She was alert and curious as always, asking questions that were better left unanswered.

Sandor was trying hard to ignore her and think of nothing, but she was prodding without shame and reserve and he found his mind unable to shut off.

“Said what? I say a lot of things.”

“You know. _Fuck the king_.”

“Aye. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Never saw you stray from Joffrey’s side.”

The hound grunted as he leaned forward towards the small fire that was burning at his feet.

“Yeah, so? Don’t mean I wanted that little shit on my back either.”

“Aren’t dogs supposed to be loyal?” she asked and her voice sounded like a challenge. She was teasing him. 

He peered at her over the small red flames and scowled.

“Aren’t wolf bitches supposed to keep their mouth shut?”

If Arya flinched, she didn’t let it show.

“No. Wolf bitches like to howl,” she answered brazenly.

Sandor hummed in disapproval. “That tongue of yours…”

Arya threw a stone in the fire. “What? It will get me killed?”

Her voice was devoid of emotion now. All humor had gone from it. Sandor frowned. He didn’t like these moments when she acted older than her years. _Children playing at war…_

“Something like that.”

Arya shrugged. “Doesn’t make much of a difference, does it?”

“Makes a difference to me.”

She looked up, momentarily startled.

“You’re my ticket out of this shithole.”

Arya smirked bitterly. “You think Aunt Lysa will pay my weight in gold.”

“I hope not. Cuz you’re a skinny wolf bitch.”

Arya chuckled. “I think you struck a bad bargain with me.”

“Yeah. No shit,” he muttered. “But I have no other bargains to strike.”

Arya folded her arms and drew closer to the fire. She was shivering slightly. Sandor wondered if he should find something to keep her warm. It would defeat the purpose if she died on the road. Then again, she was a strong little thing. If she’d survived this far, chances were she’d make it.

“You’re being dramatic. You could be a decent sellsword,” she muttered, not looking at him.

“ _Decent_? You call what I did back at the inn decent?”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Do you want me to sing a song about your brave deeds?”

The Hound laughed mirthlessly. “If you want me to strap you to that horse.”

“No need. My sister’s more likely to do that anyway,” she replied.

Sandor grunted in response and turned away. The mention of Sansa felt like a sudden and violent intrusion into a world that came to him unbidden only in dreams. It was sealed off from the miserable universe he lived in during the day. In that world, little birds could sing songs and knights and kings would be worthy of them.  But little birds did not belong in the _here_ and _now_. 

Ever observant, Arya noticed his mood shift.

“Suppose you don’t like hearing about her,” she surmised.

“Why’d you suppose _that_?”

“I don’t know. You got that look on your face.”

“What look?” he growled.

“That guilty look.”

The Hound spat angrily. “I don’t have anything to feel guilty about.”

“No? Let me guess. Taking my hostage sister away from King’s Landing is not part of your code.”

Sandor had had enough of this. He got up and started walking away.

“Where are you going?” she snapped.

“To get some fucking peace.”

Arya fumed as she sat by the fire. It’s true, she hardly knew the whole story and she suspected there were many things the Hound was not telling her about Sansa, or King’s Landing.

_But he doesn’t have to run from it like a damn coward,_ she thought angrily.

At length, she saw him return with more tree branches which he proceeded to snap and dump into the fire.

“What a good dog you are,” she quipped.

She didn’t have time to take out Needle or fight back, because the Hound had already grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and she was raised up from the ground into his arms, his stormy eyes meeting hers.

“Little lady shouldn’t fuck with me or I’ll grab one of those burning sticks and stick it right up little lady’s ass.”

Arya’s eyes widened with fear and disgust. His ugly scarred face looked twisted by the fire. Something in his voice, a dangerous, tangible edge told her he would do it. Just because he _could_.

He was not like his brother Gregor, that much she had guessed. But he still had that devil-may-care streak in his blood.

Her hand tried to reach the hilt of her sword, but one giant paw grabbed both her wrists and pinned them to her chest.

“I can hold you up like this all night. Your choice.”

Arya stiffened. Her chest was touching his and the proximity was unpleasant; his stench was both unbearable and intoxicating. He smelled too much like fresh kill. She definitely wanted to put some distance between them.

“Put me down.”

“Will the wolf bitch _howl_ if I do?” he mocked.

Arya bit her lip in anger.

“No.”

The Hound grinned at her and plopped her down without much care.

Arya huffed and pushed his hands away, strutting towards the furthest corner of the clearing.

Sandor sat down again, hiding a smirk behind a scowl. She may have pretended otherwise, but Arya Stark was still a child of Winterfell, no matter how many swords she named or heads she took.

_Although, she could be both_ , he thought with a strange sense of foreboding. He didn’t like to think about the future, especially _her_ future.

He got an unpleasant stirring in his stomach, hunger or emptiness, he didn’t know which, but he needed to fill it up with sleep and ignorance.

He could tell she needed the same thing.

Sandor let her take the first watch, though, because if he had to sleep with her around, at least he’d make sure she was tired enough not to do anything to him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for leaving kudos and reading. Expect things to get weirder and more graphic.


	3. Chapter 3

The scattered thatched houses were half-burnt. They were the remains of some disjointed battle, but you couldn't tell which side had fought against which. There were no men, no banners, no corpses left. The whole thing looked as abandoned as Harrenhal. It was barely a village.

"You think it's safe to camp here?" Arya asked, looking around warily.

"No," he replied surly. "But my ass can't sit on a horse anymore. So this will do."

Arya frowned. "We should move on."

"Didn't you hear me girl? Or are you afraid some dead Northsman will come chasing us in the dark?"

Arya scowled. "Aren't you? We're tired, underfed, weak -"

"We'll always be fucking tired and weak. Get used to it," he cut her off abruptly.

Arya was getting fed up with his attitude. "You know, if you stopped feeling sorry for yourself, this would be a lot easier."

The Hound tied his horse to the posts of a large courtyard that used to be a meeting market.

"You're the one still sitting on her horse. I'm gonna find some shit to eat and some stables to sleep in. In that order," he replied matter-of-factly.

Arya rolled her eyes. She followed his example and tied her horse down but stood by its side, looking at the road warily.

She had her hand on the pommel of her sword.

Her mind started wandering back to the last few days. She had a habit now of replaying the scene in her head; the moment when Needle's tip pierced through the man's throat and sank into his flesh. It was the only comfort she had left. And every time she resorted to that memory, it seemed to grow thinner, as if years had passed instead of days. She was afraid that it would not last; this feeling of satisfaction. Righteous revenge could not sate her forever. What else _could_?

She was as barren as the fields around her. Only killing would fill her up momentarily, only to leave her more empty than before.

Arya chuckled. She was thinking like an old man. She had no battle scars. No visible ones, anyway.

A sudden unknown presence made her body grow taut. A shift in the leaves, a prickle of the horse's ears.

She gripped the pommel hard.

There was someone watching her. She was certain of it.

And the Hound was searching for rats instead of keeping watch.

She held her breath and started counting back from ten. A shadow leapt out of the branches. She pulled out her sword and turned around.

Arya gasped.

A pair of deep golden eyes was staring at her from the brambles. Her heartbeat surged.

She knew those eyes, had dreamt of them day and night in King's Landing. They were the eyes of sunsets at Winterfell. They glowed in the darkness of the underground crypts, lighting her path through the sepulchers of ancient kings. They were disembodied, yet reminiscent of every living creature in the North. Their blood swelled and flowed in her veins.

Arya felt her body slowly relax. She extended her hand, meaning to call to it.

"What the fuck are you doing, girl?"

Arya's instincts were trained by hard experience and she rounded up on him as quick as a sparrow. Needle was pointing at his chest.

The Hound laughed, stepping forward, until the tip of her sword was touching his plate.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

 _In a way, I did,_ she thought bitterly.

"What's gotten you so jumpy?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow.

She lowered her sword. "Nothing."

"Nothing, eh? That's not what it looked like."

"Did you find anything?" she asked impatiently.

"The little lady may visit the chambers I've prepared for her," he replied, bowing slightly.

Arya pushed past him.

* * *

 

 

She had slept in hay so many times that this almost felt like home. Of course, there was barely any of it left, but she found enough comfort to dull her senses and pretend to sleep for a while.

The horses were snoring lightly. The smell of dung made her feel oddly safe.

The Hound was sitting by the door. He was carving a small wooden spear from a piece of log.

Arya sighed into her fists and turned her back to him, staring at the wall blankly.

"So, what's the story? I'm your whore?"

Sandor almost dropped his knife. He looked up sharply.

"The hell?"

"That's what you told the Tickler. _"She's all right. I've had better."_ Remember?"

"Yeah, I also remember you stabbed him to death a hundred times. Not much of a kind whore, are you?"

Arya tensed.

"I'm only saying, we'll meet other people. Is that the story we're going with?"

"What do _you_ propose?"

"I don't know, wouldn't it make more sense if I were your daughter?"

"Right. You're my bastard daughter. You know they'd kill you right off."

Arya turned around, glaring at him. "They'll kill me if they find out I'm a Stark anyway."

"All I'm saying is, whores don't get killed. Better you be my whore."

Arya wrinkled her nose.

Sandor smirked. "Does the little lady feel degraded?"

"What if someone wants to take me from you? If I'm just a common whore, you shouldn't mind. At least you shouldn't draw your sword. It would look suspicious."

Sandor shrugged. "Not if I make it known you’re mine. Maybe I'm too fond of my common whore and I _don't_ like to share."

Arya looked at him with disgust mingled with curiosity.

"Men aren't like that about whores. They're only fond of their wives."

The Hound chuckled. "And what would you know about it, girl?"

Arya didn't back down. "Enough."

"I bet you haven't even bled yet."

She felt the blush creeping into her cheeks even though she fought hard to keep her face blank.

"I've bled enough, too."

He sighed and leant his head back against the wall. "In my experience, most men would sell their wives and die for their whores. So I wouldn't put so much price on the sacred bonds of marriage."

"Not _all_ men are like that."

"Let me guess. Your old dad never laid a finger on a cunny that wasn't Catelyn Stark's."

" _Don't_ speak like that about him."

"Yet you have a bastard brother, don't you?"

The mention of Jon nearly made her break down. She clenched her fists hard and folded her arms around her elbows. "He's not a bastard."

Sandor looked at her with pity and amusement.

"So, you care for this bastard brother. Maybe even more than you care about your blood brothers. You like the whore's son better."

Arya wanted to shout no, but she knew deep down that she loved Jon Snow the most and denying it was one lie she couldn't bring herself to tell.

"Just as well. You see, whores _always_ triumph over wives."

"I should feel so flattered," she spat.

Sandor brought the tip of the wooden spear to his tongue. "Mm, doesn't draw blood yet."

"Is this all you care about?" Arya snapped.

The Hound smiled a sad smile. "And what should I care about?"

Arya sighed in exhaustion. "I almost envy you."

"Fine thing for the wolf to envy the dog."

"Fine thing for the wolf to be the dog's whore," she replied without malice. She had a dark humour not unlike his own.

But now she was too tired to say anything more. She only hoped she would fall asleep quickly so that she might dream of Nymeria's eyes.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments :) Also, I should probably specify Arya's around 12 in this story. Just a heads up.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite his best precautions, he had fallen asleep.

Arya watched the rise and fall of his chest with morbid curiosity. With all her brothers and even a sister, she had never actually watched someone sleep. It gave one power, to witness the temporary death of someone else.

 _I could make him die for good_ , she thought to herself. Although the Hound was probably a trained sellsword and could sniff danger before Arya even had time to raise her sword, she could still damage him in some small way. What wound could she inflict that would not be noticed until he woke up?

As her mind went over the possibilities, she yawned and she realized quickly that she was bored. She didn’t really care.

The Hound was an unfortunate and unwanted companion, but she could not bring herself to think of him as the enemy because that would demand too much energy.

If she wanted to harm him, it was only for sport, for something to _do_ , to make herself feel _alive_.

She contemplated the way his eyes would open and widen in mild surprise; she would be kneeling by his feet, trying to cut off his toes or crest into his skin the direwolf of her banners. A silly child’s game, no doubt, but something to strengthen her indifferent heart.

He was almost a toy she could use and discard.

Her eyes suddenly smiled cruelly. Syrio had taught her how to move swift like water, soft like a shadow. She crept out of her sleeping nest and crawled on her hands and knees towards the Hound.

* * *

 

Sandor was not dreaming this time, thankfully, but he was caught in the chains of a powerful listlessness and felt trapped in a mire, during a long and unending battle. He could see the fog rising over his eyelids and he did nothing to dispel it.

He even saw the girl approaching. Her movements were slow and snakelike and her black eyes spread venom into his weak bones.

He did not try to stop her at all when he felt her hands moving up his thighs. He did not even stir when her clumsy, but sharp fingers untied his breeches and took his manhood limply in her hands.

Her palms were cold and still. She stood like that for a good minute, her breath coming out short. 

Eyes still closed, he murmured:

“Either jerk me off or cut it off. Do it and let me sleep.”

He was acting bolder than he really felt. His heart was starting to flounder and the fog was clearing. He became aware she had Needle at her waist and that she was half-mad enough to do it.

Arya squeezed his dick and, eyes still closed, he inhaled sharply.

“We’re not going to my Aunt. I don’t want to be trapped in the Eyrie.”

The words sounded final and the veiled threat was made more obvious by another powerful squeeze.

“Seven hells,” he let out, stubbornly keeping his eyes shut.

“Do we have an understanding?” she asked, but her voice was tremulous.

He had an inkling she was not yet ready for what she was holding in her hands.

“So. You’re not gonna jerk me off, you’re not gonna chop it off either. You’re just gonna bugger me.”

Arya placed both hands now on his cock and moved them across his length slowly, like a maester searching for diseases.

 _Shit, she better stop that_ , he thought, worried that he might start to react.

“Do we have an understanding?” she repeated. Her movements did not cease and they did not speed up either.

His breath hitched again for very different reasons.

“Where else, girl, if not your Aunt?”

“The sea.”

Sandor laughed. “They all say that.”

“I mean it.”

“Will you let go of my dick if I say yes?”

“Depends if you’re lying.”

“My dick isn’t,” he replied brazenly. _I have a tongue too, girl._

To his surprise, Arya let go of him and he heard her get up and walk to her corner. He did not know if he had convinced her or made her more furious. He still held his eyes closed. He was doing her a favour, because he knew she would not bear his eyes on her, not after what had happened.

All night, he dreamt of relieving himself into a river and he howled in his sleep, because the river was red with blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the kudos and comments and get used to the weirdness.


	5. Chapter 5

Sandor had expected to see shame in the girl's eyes the next morning, or at least some reticence, but Arya Stark had developed a thick skin. That, or she was meant to be a Mummer.

She rode next to him down the country road as if the other night had been nothing but a stop along the way.

Not that he was betraying anything. He had only hoped _she_ would slip, if only to relish in her childish ways. He would have laughed at her, she would have blushed and got angry, but the whole affair would have been shrouded in a child's curiosity. No such luck with her.

They had discussed nothing. He had no idea if they were still heading towards the Eyrie, or if she expected him to take her to the sea. Luckily, the two roads converged. North-West was their destination.

They were leaving behind the charred houses of the dead village they had slept in, turning another sordid chapter into their pointless, humourless journey.

But the wolf bitch had been right about this place.

They came from the bushes. Three on his side, two on hers. Clad in mud and rags, hungry-looking and feral, they wore no banners, had no home, and seemed bent on killing. But Sandor knew from their deplorable visage that they did not enjoy slaying; they only wanted to eat. Anything. Their horses. Even their dead flesh. 

Their crude weapons (pitckforks and spears) were spinning in the air mechanically, as if corpses, not people, were wielding them.

Arya's horse was already down; stabbed right between its ribs. But they did not reach the other horse.

Sandor did not even take out his sword. He used his hands. He wrung two necks, almost as you'd wring a chicken's.

Unfortunately, he had her to look after.

"Behind me, girl!" he roared when he saw one of the men going at her.

Arya had her Needle out and was trying to spar with the wild man. He had grabbed onto her sword and was dragging her towards him. Arya landed a kick in his foot, but he seemed not to feel it. His fingers were like claws and they did not let go.

Sandor lunged for her, but the wild man had managed to grab her sword and was now threatening to slit Arya's throat with it.

Arya was putting up a fight, kicking and lashing at him, but the man's claws were still just as sharp.

"Let her go, you dumb shit!" Sandor growled and the man seemed to hesitate, because fear now shone in his eyes, but his companion - the one whose neck Sandor had not wrung - had snuck from behind and was jabbing a spear into the Hound's neck.

"Seven hells, put that fucking thing down before you hurt yourself," he spat.

The spear jabbed him harder.

"Look here," the one holding Arya began in a voice that sounded raw and foreign, "just let us take the girl and the horse and we won't give you more trouble."

"Like I said, put that fucking thing down before you hurt yourself. And I'm not talking about the spear."

Arya's eyes met his. She had small tears stuck between her lashes, but his words had reached her, because he now saw the shame, the reticence he had expected to see that morning.

Except, he knew she was not ashamed about _that_.

No, she was probably ashamed that she had got caught by this stupid man.

"Stand down and we'll ride away with her and we won't kill you. Got it?" the one holding the spear said in a tremulous voice.

Sandor raised an eyebrow. "You two look like shit, you smell like shit, but you sound like nobles. What house?"

The two men exchanged a wary look.

 _Idiots_ , Sandor thought.

"Hornwood or Bolton?" he inquired almost conversationally.

"Not that it matters to you, oaf, but it's Manderly," one of them retorted. 

"Manderly, eh? What, you got tired of fucking the fish and you're looking for entertainment elsewhere?"

The spear drew blood. Sandor almost chuckled. He couldn't give two shits about what happened to him. The man holding Arya, though. He was the problem.

"How the fuck did a pair of rich boots get so dirty?"

"Shut your mouth."

"Well, anyway," he continued, "you're no Manderlys now. You're deserters."

The name seemed to sting, because the one holding Arya thinned his lips and snarled. "Bold words and wretched. You don't get to call us that. We were sent to free Ser Wylis. Few of us survived."

"I - I knew him. I knew Ser Wylis."

Sandor's eyes widened a fraction. That reckless Stark madness always managed to catch him unawares.

Arya continued boldly, although Needle was kissing her skin. "I was born in the North, I knew him. He - he looked like a walrus, but he was very kind and quiet. He was a big man. A good man."

The man holding her seemed to waver. He did not entirely believe her, yet he wanted to.

"We're on your side!" she yelled suddenly. "We're just trying to get back home. I - I was born near White Harbor."

"She's lying!" the man holding the spear expelled. "Why are we wasting time? Let's just go, brother!"

"I'm not lying!" Arya retorted. "I could prove it to you! But even if you don't believe me, at least have the decency to follow your House's words: _Steady As The Sea_. You may have run for your lives, but you can still abide by your laws."

The spear moved away from Sandor's neck slightly. Needle was no longer kissing her skin.

The two muddied, rag-clad, beastly men looked tired and depressed. They wanted to cry right there and then, but were too proud, or had forgotten how. They had once carried banners. Now, they wore no banners.

Arya waited. She waited for them to let them go. They seemed trapped in their own ill fate. _They_ were the ones waiting. 

She was almost sorry when she did what she did next.

She grabbed Needle's blade and, twisting it under her elbow, plunged it into the man's chest.

He staggered back, not even surprised - only a little startled. He howled, without even feeling pain.

Sandor had grabbed the spear from the other one and had jammed it through his throat.

The corpses lay at their feet, as so many had before.

Arya was panting. She bent down and wretched over the burnt grass. She still had small tears on her lashes.

"Steady as the sea?" Sandor asked quietly.

"Septa Mordane had me learn all the Houses and their banners and their words until I grew sick," Arya muttered, crouching down and spitting the vomit on the grounding.

She could hear him think _You're sick now_.

Instead he said, "Good thing she did."

"She's dead. Like him. And him."

"Better them than us."

"They wouldn't have killed us."

" _Why_?" he challenged angrily. "Because they used to wipe their shit with handkerchiefs?"

"Don't be stupid," she glowered.

"I'm not the one who had her own sword held to her throat!"

"We should not have stopped here, I told you we shouldn't have!" she expelled furiously.

"And what? We're never gonna stop anywhere cuz we might have to kill little lords?" he shouted back.

"That's not -!"

"You didn't care when you killed that rat bastard Tickler, did you?"

"He deserved it!"

"And these two didn't?"

"They deserved many things, but they - they didn't deserve _this_."

Sandor pulled out the spear from the dead man's body.

"I don't care if you suckled at their breast and played with their daughters, when a man attacks, you put him down!"

Arya did not reply. She went and sat down by her fallen horse. She put her head in her hands. She did not weep. She just sat very still.

The world was a bad place, she had always known that. But she had expected the badness to come from without. Not from within. Not from her.

After some time, she let him touch her.

His arms came around her almost like an apology. For what, neither knew.

He picked her up in his arms and carried her to his horse. There was something slow in his movements. Not gentle, but methodical. Almost like a groom carrying his bride home. But a groom would shield his lady with his coat and say his vows. And she would say hers and smile feebly and let him take her to bed. Or some such tale.

Whereas Arya wondered if she could ever love anyone again, much less marry.

Years ago, she had planned on running away if she were ever forced to wed. Unions had never been to her liking. Separations had always made her happier.

But separation did not mean loss. And she had lost her reason to love.

"That was not a bad move with the sword back there. Who taught you that?"

"A dancer."

Sandor frowned. "What do you mean -"

"You don't know him. He was from Braavos," she said, leaning into him as he pulled the reins.

" _Ah_. Figures. Not a bad move, but not a good one either."

Arya snorted. "It got the job done."

"Maybe next time you'll let me show you how it's fucking done."

"I know how it's _fucking_ done."

"If you say so, m'lady," he replied glibly.

Arya hated him. What right did he have to call her that? Only one boy had ever called her that and meant it. Another loss. 

But the Hound could laugh after killing and not mind it.

Perhaps it was not hate she felt. It was always envy.

"I'm your whore. Not your lady."

Sandor's breath tickled the hairs on her head.

"Same thing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the kudos and comments, I very much appreciate it. Feedback is welcome!
> 
> Sidenote: The Manderly House words are not known, so I invented my own.


	6. Chapter 6

Sandor didn't like the inn. Neither did she. They could agree on that, at least.

It was too clean, too homely. And it looked as if it had risen from the earth only two moons ago. Everything was freshly built and new.

But they had little time left before sundown and they were both fed up with sleeping in the dark, hearing the howling of animals and men all throughout the night.

"There could be Lannisters inside."

Arya stared at him. "Are you afraid, or what?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Just cos they don't know you're alive, don't mean you’re safe.”

Arya rolled her eyes. "Just admit it, you're scared of Lannisters and their power. And their money."

Sandor spat at his feet. "I screamed 'fuck the king' in a public place. I fled King's Landing. Trust me, girl, if I cared a jot about a Lannister twat, I'd be smelling the farts of Lord Tywin right now."

She shrugged. "Then let's go inside and see what awaits us."

"Well, there's a lot of backdoors, so when I give the call, you scuttle out of there and wait for me in the bushes," he instructed.

Arya snorted. "Wait for you in the bushes? How diverting."

The Hound grumbled something under his breath, but she was too preoccupied with the door of the inn suddenly banging open against the wall. Two fat men walked out, holding a barrel of wine between them. They were wearing aprons. They seemed to be going into the cellars.

Sandor placed a finger over his lips. He quietly followed them. Arya was in his pursuit.

They didn't get very far. The inn door was flung open again and this time, a woman called out to them.

"You two, over there!"

Arya thought she must be yelling at someone else. Why would she care about two bedraggled beggars sneaking in the dark?

But she pressed on. "Yes, you, with the girl! Is she one of mine?"

The Hound growled. "Mind your business, wench."

"I'll mind my business when you don't fool around with what's mine. Is she one of my girls, I ask?"

"No," he answered crossly.

She came up to them, holding a small dagger at her waist and an ostentatious bodice around her bosom.

"Yes, this can't be one of mine. Too skinny," she said, inspecting Arya. For good measure, she circled her three times. Arya looked like a wolf in a cage.

"Well, then, I'm sorry for the inconvenience," she said at last. "But you see, three of my girls disappeared a fortnight ago. Not taking any chances anymore. Anyway, you can come in with her. I don't mind when men bring their own.  Less work for me. You'll have to pay full room, though."

"How much do you charge?" the Hound asked, looking back at the darkening road whence they had come.

“I see you're wearing armour. You must be someone. At least a sellsword. So I imagine you have some coins to spare."

"You'd be guessing wrong," he muttered darkly.

"Hm," she fussed. "Well, if you lend me your girl for the night, we can arrive at some understanding."

"What kind of understanding?"

"Your whore for lodgings. I'm missing three girls. I need an extra...hand."

Sandor wondered why Arya was being so quiet. She would usually deliver some smart line to whoever was stupid enough to cross her. But she was taciturn.

"No can do. I don't share."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Beg pardon?"

"I don't share what's mine. I like my cunt to be my cunt."

The woman laughed and the bodice choked her breasts. "I never heard such nonsense, by the Gods. What are you, a man of the King's Guard? Or maybe a lost brother from the Wall?"

"He doesn’t share. I’m his. Got it?"

Arya's voice was cool and small, but commanding.

The woman peered at her as if she wasn't quite sure someone had spoken.

"He's hired me for the whole journey," Arya continued calmly.

"And you wouldn't like to make an extra something?"

"No."

The woman snorted. "A loyal whore. You're either very stupid, or very good."

"Three girls disappeared you say," Sandor spoke, grunting. "You don’t need more whores. You need more swords. Luckily..." he trailed off, showing his various blades and the large, dirty sword which still bore the powder of dried blood on its metal.

The woman's eyes roamed over his weapons with interest.

"I've got what you need," he finished.

* * *

 

They had been given a rather pleasant room. There were some strange smells in the air – one which Sandor could recognize immediately – and Arya gagged a little.

“What’s with these perfumes?”

“To make our sweat and shit smell less.”

There were no windows, but there was a small hearth and a nice little table by the fire. Arya mostly observed these things. Sandor took a place in the corner and proceeded to untie his boots. There was only one bed, but Hounds slept on the floor all the time.

They ate some meagre food in silence. They hadn't been given much for the price of Sandor's skills. Only cheese and bread and ale. But it was enough.

He was to start a night shift at three.

"Take the bed. I'll wake you when it's time. Then I'll sleep in it," she told him simply.

Sandor wondered why she was being so generous with the bed. He didn't argue, though. His eyelids drooped with exhaustion.

Arya sat at the table and played with some bits of wood, holding her head in her hand and yawning from time to time.

He soon fell asleep.

* * *

 

They had both drifted off, Arya with her head on the table, the Hound across the coverlet of the bed - he hadn't even taken off his boots properly, after all - when they were both jolted awake by strange sounds coming from all around them.

At first, Arya jumped up for Needle, but when she saw that Sandor had only pricked his ears, but had otherwise remained in the same position, she relaxed a little.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"Nothing. Just whores fucking."

"Right. Yeah. They sound weird, though."

"Weird, how?"

"Must they all scream like that? It's rather stupid."

"How else will men feel their cocks are worth the spending if whores don't shout in approval?"

Arya wrinkled her nose. "They're such imbeciles."

"The little lady is affronted," he muttered in amusement.

"I'm not - I don't care one way or another, and stop calling me that!"

At that moment, a woman's moan echoed down the corridor and Arya shuddered, even though she was near the fire.

"You know, wolf-bitch, you and your sister are not so different after all."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. Wake me up at three."

* * *

 

She woke him up an hour early. She was sitting on the bed beside him, her black eyes shining by the light of the fire. No light in them, he realized. Just the fire.

She had not touched him, but he must have felt her presence, because he could not sleep anymore.

Sandor grumbled and turned on his back.

"What is it?”

Arya remained silent, frozen in the same aloof state.

“You want the bed, is that it?”

Her lips moved as if to speak, but at the last moment, the words died.

“What's wrong, girl?” he asked, sitting up on his elbows.

Her closeness was a strange coldness; her body was near, but her mind was far away. 

“Girl?”

He tried shaking her gently. She would not budge.

“Has the wolf-bitch gone mad? What is wrong with you?” His tone was no longer patient, but he did not shout. He could still hear sounds of feigned pleasure coming from the rooms around them, but they were dimmed by her presence, somehow.

“Nymeria.”

She had finally spoken. Sandor exhaled.

“Ny-who?”

“Nymeria. She is here. With me.”

“Who the fuck’s –”

“She is in this room. I can’t look at her. But she’s standing by the fire.”

He looked towards the hearth but there were only shadows. The fire was dwindling.

“She ran towards you. Jumped on the bed. Went for your throat.”

Sandor’s throat felt dry as he next spoke. “So, this Nymeria girl doesn’t like me a whole lot.”

“She’s no girl. She’s a wolf.”

 _Ah. One of those wretched direwolves, no doubt_ , he realized.

“It was a dream, girl. You dreamt it. That’s all.”

Arya shook her head. “She’s still _here_. I can hear her breath behind me.”

Sandor sighed. “Okay. She’s here. What do you want me to do about it?”

Arya looked pained, although her eyes had the same glazed look as before.

“She wants me to kill you, I think.”

Sandor gave a short, bitter laugh. “No surprise there.”

“You don’t get it. She went for your throat, but I stopped her. I slashed my hand. She almost bit me. But I stopped her.”

She showed him her small hand, which had no cuts, no bruises. She pointed at the invisible wounds.

“It doesn’t hurt. But she only stopped because she thinks I’ll do it myself. If I don’t do it, she’ll do it.”

Sandor’s eyes grew sad. His eyes were always sad, if you looked closely. But now they had grown deep, blue depths.

He felt there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do to prevent this girl from breaking apart. And he saw in her absent eyes a nature more fragile than her sister’s. Sansa Stark may not have been able to wield a sword, kill in cold blood and live with so much hate as Arya. But Sansa’s spirit could not be broken, because she had never _truly_ believed in heroes and ghosts, good and evil. She had always preferred fiction to reality, but she had always known it was a fiction.

Arya Stark still believed that such a reality existed, a reality where direwolves rode with their masters and warned off the dark spirits.

Sansa Stark would have never dreamt of being a hero, a warrior, a conqueror, a tyrant.

But her sister still wanted to be all of those.

Ultimately, Sansa would survive. Arya would not.

“Do you want her to do it?” he rasped.

“I don’t know. I stopped her. I guess not. But she is my own. Part of me.”

“If I die, you're alone on this journey.”

“No. I’ll have her. I'll never be alone."

“And you’ll travel across the Narrow Sea.”

“Yes. I – I hope she doesn’t get sea sick.”

Sandor chuckled. “I’d almost like to see that.”

“I don’t want her to go away. I want her to take me with her. But I don’t want – I don’t want any more blood. Not tonight.”

She looked down at her hand. He wondered how much blood she saw there.

A strange impulse overtook him and he took hold of her hand. Gently. With caution.

“There’s no blood, girl.”

She tried to pull away, but he held still. “There’s no blood.”

Arya did not struggle anymore. Her hand lay in his, a small imprint on his giant palm.

“The wolf won’t be here in the morning. You just need to sleep it off.”

“If I sleep –” She did not continue, but Sandor guessed what she was thinking. _Nymeria will kill you._

“She won’t.”

Sandor grabbed hold of her head. His voice was louder now, imbued with a strange sense of urgency.

“And if she does, you _run_. You run somewhere safe. You don’t fight. You don’t take out your sword. You run and hope no one catches you. They will. But until they do, you run.”

Arya was staring at him, but his words did not register.

“Do you understand?”

She closed her eyes. Her head fell back. It lay weak in his hands.

Sandor was startled. Had she fainted?

She was sleeping.

Sandor let her head go. Her whole body fell down like a log on the bed.

He cursed under his breath. She had been half-asleep this whole time. 

Sandor got up and let her glide in the hollow where his body had been. He pulled the sheets over her body.

But he did not look at the hearth anymore.

It was almost time for his night shift.

* * *

 

Arya dreamt she was standing above him. Her mouth tasted of blood. Her eyes were rimmed with it. Her nose filled with its smell. She bent down and tore out another morsel of him. She could not get enough of it. The skin was sweet like milk of the poppy.

But she licked the wound afterwards. She licked the blood clean off. She soothed him. She hoped he would die quickly. Without pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, a slightly different chapter. thanks for the kudos and comments, they're very appreciated :)


	7. Chapter 7

The second night was easier.

Arya slept first and Sandor went down to his post at the inn's door.

It was inconvenient they had to stay on, but a grim halestorm was making it hard for anyone to travel around those parts. Their hostess had reported that a child's head had been split straight in the middle by a large, hollow piece of ice.

Winter was coming indeed.

The wolf-bitch was in a state of lethargy. After the previous night, little had been said between them.

Sandor was not sure whether she remembered anything at all. He had an inkling she knew something, but as always, Arya Stark was a stubborn brat.

All Starks were a little mad by nature. Had visions. Went bad in the head. Died like flies. Mostly by their own doing. You just never knew _how_ they'd go.

He watched with wrapt attention as one barmaid swept a corner of the room idly. She had one small tit out, but she was so delicate and unconcerned about it, that it looked like an accident. An old man pulled her shoulder blades gently towards him and kissed the back of her shirt, before squeezing the tit and letting go. He walked to his table and put his face in his hands.

Sandor swallowed his own spit and scratched the skin of his eyelids, stretching it and bundling it up in a strange effort to blind himself.

Outside, he heard the window panes shuddering. A cold wind whispered under the doorway. He put his fingers under the door and felt the cold breeze on his skin. He was waiting for something to bite him. He was waiting for that wretched direwolf. But it never came.

Later, he got up and walked back to their room.

* * *

 

She was awake, sitting on the bed with her naked legs stretched out in front of her. She was inspecting some red gashes on her thighs. They had turned blue and green, a wet, dreary colour.

Arya pulled one knee up. The only thing covering her frail body was a dirty overshirt.

The Hound stopped at the door. She hadn't noticed him coming in. He coughed and looked down.

It was too late, though. He had caught a glimpse of the shadows and the bruises and what was beyond them.

Arya looked up absently.

"You're back," she noted with little interest.

"Get dressed," he ordered shortly. "I need to sleep."

Arya frowned, a little spite coming into her eyes. "Don't tell me what to do."

"Just put something on, girl."

"What, my legs disgust you? You haven't seen a beaten girl before?"

Sandor gave a weary sigh. "I'm tired, wolf-bitch."

"Oh yes, staying in a brothel must be so tiring," she retorted.

"You'll want to watch your tongue."

"I bet you saw a lot of _little_ girls like me in King's Landing, all of them with bigger bruises."

"Yes. I did." His eyes crinkled in a bitter smile.

"It was a brothel just like this one, wasn't it?" she asked acidly.

"No. It was the Red Keep. It was your sister."

Arya's breath hitched in her throat.

"That's not true. No one would touch her. She's to be queen," she replied shakily.

"You think Joff gives a flying fuck? No. He told that fat cunt, Meryn, to hit her. He jabbed the pommel of his sword in her stomach."

He couldn't say why he was so cruelly telling her this, when he could have easily spared her the pain. He supposed it was revenge, revenge for last night and Nymeria.

Arya hugged both knees to her chest. "Ser Meryn. I know him. What - what else did he do?"

Sandor shook his head. He wasn't going to tell her anymore.

But then he opened his mouth and, "He undressed her."

Arya blinked, her eyes misty with unshed tears. She nodded her head, as if she had known this would follow.

Before Sandor could stop her, she had pulled the shirt over her head.

He released a breath.

He walked over to his chair and sat down by the fire.

She was still hugging her knees, but he could see the soft flesh of her budding breasts and the lean, hard skin of her back.

To anyone else, she looked completely unperturbed. Sandor admired her ability to slink back into nonchalance, even when she was quivering.

"Then what?" she asked mechanically.

Sandor clenched his fist on the table.

"Then _what_?"

"No."

Sandor got up and pulled off each boot from his foot, slowly. He lingered on purpose, dusting them off, and setting them under the table.

"You'll catch your death," he mumured.

"I don't care."

 _Ah, of course._ Sandor shook his head.

He walked over to the bed. He stood above her and smirked sadly.

"Then he grabbed her by the chin."

His fingers were sharp and mean. He wrenched her head up.

"And he told her to stand."

He didn't wait for her to get up, he pulled her by the neck.

Arya was dragged out of bed.

She stood, shivering naked in front of him.

"Then he grabbed her by the hair."

His fingers now wove into her dirty locks. Arya whimpered slightly.

"And she lifted her arms."

Arya obeyed, her eyes following his every movement.

Sandor grabbed the shirt with his other hand and pulled it over her head and arms before she had time to protest.

She welped a little and fought back, but the garment was already on her body and the game was over.

"I covered her," he said, his fingers playing with the hem of the shirt.

"But you didn't stop Meryn."

"No. No, I didn't."

His fingers were still playing with the hem of her shirt. They brushed against her stomach and he felt it contract. He gently trailed down his finger to her belly-button and then up again. Arya shuddered. She had a small scar on her abdomen. He touched it gingerly. It was a shallow wound.

Arya looked down at his hand. "Did you touch her, like you're touching me?"

His finger travelled down again, reaching her pelvis. He hovered over the skin and then pinched it hard.

Arya shrieked, stepping back. "Why'd you do that for?"

"Get dressed. And get out."

"What?"

"Go eat something. I don't care. Come back later."

Arya was taken aback. "Why -"

"I told you to get the _fuck_ out."

She didn't have to be told twice.

* * *

 

Sandor dropped down on the bed with a groan. He held his head in his hands. Beads of sweat were trailing down his forehead. He could smell his own fear dripping on the sheets. 

Why had he told her to leave?

He knew why.

He looked at his brown hands. Would he have hurt Sansa too?

No. Sansa was no wolf-bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to all the kudos and comments :) so we're veering into ambiguous/weird territory again. but then again, you've gotten used to that.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, they went out together.

The world was a block of ice, swollen and bursting with the cold. Snow had fallen on barren patches of land here and there. They looked like milk-white eyes; the dead eyes of a fresh corpse pulled out of the water. 

These impressions flitted across Arya’s mind briefly, without becoming cemented, without becoming a reality. She moved through the frozen brambles with a childlike slowness.

The wolf-bitch smelled the air with apprehension. Winter was closer and closer.

“Come on, up on the horse.”

The Hound offered to pull her up, but she stood her ground.

“You know that horse is going to die from this cold.”

“No… _we_ ’re going to die from this cold. I’d rather die sitting up than crouching down.”

Arya shrugged, but a strange smile had found its way on her face.

“You have a point.”

He put his hands around her waist and lifted her from the ground. His fingers stretched the skin under her jerkin, causing a painful friction. It hurt, it hurt too much, but it also made her body a living thing.

He sat behind her and grabbed the reins. The fog of their breaths made conversation hard.

But words could not dispel their silence; ever since they had started on this road together, they had lived in a world of silence, punctured pointlessly by growls and anger.

They were both tired of the punctures.

Arya put her hands over his and tightened the reins.

“We should go faster.”

“No point,” he said, but withdrew his hands a little, leaving her in charge momentarily.

“Put your hands around my waist,” she said tonelessly. It was not an order or a request, more of a suggestion. _It would be better if you did that…for both of us._

The Hound obliged, although she felt the reluctance in his muscles.

“So. Let’s continue where we left off last night.”

Sandor made no movement, but he hummed with disapproval in her hair. The fog bristled around them.

“I don’t want to talk about your sister –”

“Me neither."

"Then?"

"Just touch me. Like you did last night. On my skin. On the scar.”

Sandor pulled away completely.

Arya sighed.

“No _, Clegane._ I don’t mean it like that. See? _You_ mean it like that. I don’t care about that. I just want something there.”

“Why –”

“Because we’re going to die and I’m never going to be warm again.”

Sandor seemed to hesitate for a long while.

“Are you going to tell me to get the fuck out again?” she asked and there was humor in her voice.

“Where did you go last night anyway?” He was still ashamed.

“I went to the kitchens. I sniffled a bit and the cook gave me food. I stole some too . I put it in our bags. Won’t last long, though.”

“Good girl,” he muttered and put his hands back on her waist. Then he lifted the layers covering her and his knuckles gently rasped on her skin.

They rode on for a long time with only these soft movements to keep them company.

At one point, she leaned back against his chest and looked up at the sky.

“We should just go to Winterfell.”

The Hound laughed.

“What? Sit under its fucking ruins?”

She shrugged. “Yes. Everywhere is in ruins.”

“Better to die at Winterfell, eh?”

Arya nodded her head against him. “That place knows us. We’d be –”

She did not say _at home_.

“….we’d be,” she finished simply.

His fingers grazed her small breasts almost like you’d stroke a cat. There was nothing sensual, nothing earthly about it. No flesh, no stirrings. Her body was like Winterfell. His hand was like Winterfell.

Then his chin landed on top of her head and gradually, he closed his eyes, hand still resting on her stomach.

Arya fell asleep on his chest, too.

Their breaths spun more fog, blankets and coverlets of fog, quilts of fog patched with little touches, little scars.

The horse rode on through the fog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the comments and kudos. A shorter, moodier chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

He dreamt with snow in his eyes.

The snow did not turn the dream white, but it wiped it clean from his memory once he opened his eyes.

Arya shook him awake, stirring in the saddle against him.

“I dreamt of Nymeria again.”

Sandor touched her shoulder. She was as cold as ice. He began to rub her skinny arms.

“But I think – I think I was her. In her body. I saw through her eyes. I ran with her feet. I was hunting in the dark. I saw lights in the sky. But someone touched my muzzle and I rolled down on the ground and –”

“Slow down, girl.”

“ – and it was like a shadow and it jumped over me, but I fought back and I was going to bite him,” she continued breathlessly, “but he licked my face and ran away. Disappeared. Just like that.”

“Shame,” he muttered, shaking the horse’s mane. Snowflakes fell dead on the ground. It had stopped snowing, but the fog hadn’t let up. It was thinner now, wispy like smoke, but it tasted bad, heady, like the breath of a drunk.

“Nymeria – I mean _I_ wasn’t afraid. I should have been, but I recognized the smell. I think it was one of my brothers’ direwolves.”

“Don’t think so, girl. Those direwolves are as dead as your brothers.”

He did not apologize, nor did he stop rubbing her arms.

Arya pulled back an inch. “Not Jon. Jon’s still at the Wall.”

“Are you sure about that? If I were him, I’d have fled that gut-hole a long time ago.”

“Well, he’s _not_ you.”

They rode in silence for a while, until Arya leaned back into his chest and Sandor’s hands moved back to her waist.

“Maybe we’ll find him at Winterfell.”

“You still want to go to that blasted place?”

“Do you still want to go with me?”

“You know I still want a reward.”

“And you know we’re not going to my aunt.”

“Hm.”

“Do you want to go with me anyway?”

Sandor did not answer. He had an inkling this was a trick question, a “is this where we’re supposed to part?” question. And he was not quite ready for it.

He was not afraid of loneliness. He yearned for it. He yearned for peace. But he knew he’d have no peace if he left her alone on this journey. Because she _was_ afraid of loneliness.

He couldn’t follow her to the end, though. Her sister, he may have followed. Her sister, he would have followed into madness. But the wolf-bitch, he could not cage, like a little bird. The wolf-bitch had to run free. He could not stand in her way.

Un-possessed, this one. Which he didn’t abide by. He had never had someone without really _having_ them before.

“Would you go with Sansa?”

_Oh, fuck. She reads minds now._

“Yes,” he replied honestly.

“Then pretend she’s here, with us. Pretend she asked you to come with me.”

Arya spoke naturally, without spite or resentment. She didn’t seem to mind that she would never be her sister.

“Why do you want me to? You can barely stand to look at me, girl. You want to kill me, too, don’t you? I killed your young friend. Remember that?”

The words poured down and gurgled like a violent stream which he had never meant to let loose. Arya gave a small scream of anger.

“Shut up! Shut up! Just shut up! Stop trying to make me hate you!”

“But you already do,” he spoke quietly.

“That’s why you have to come with me! Because I need something – someone to hate. I can't just kill myself! If I have you, I'll have someone on my list. I'll feel _something_.”

He was right. She was afraid of loneliness. She must have been a lonely child, even with all those siblings.

“I’m going to get you somewhere safe, _Arya Stark_ , if that’s your concern.” He knew that wasn’t her concern. “And then I’ll be on my way because _I'm_ not safe. Do you fucking understand?”

“Maye _I'm_ not safe for you,” she replied churlishly.

“So, we agree.”

“I'm _never_ agreeing with you and you're an idiot.”

She was being petulant, but he liked her better when she was upset than when she was quiet. The moments when her age showed through the growth of war were scarce and he treasured them, despite their sharp edges. 

“Do it for Sansa,” she spoke at length. “Pretend. Just pretend.”

Sandor shook his head.

“Pretend what?”

“Pretend she’s here instead of me.”

The wolf-bitch was not going to cry, but he could picture her rolling on the ground in a heap, trying to bite the enemy.

He tilted her chin up until her eyes met his.

“You don’t want that.”

“Why?”

He was going to bend down and bite her mouth to teach her a lesson about older men and young girls, but instead he only pressed his lips to hers for a breath.

Arya almost fell off the horse. He grabbed her just in time.

They didn’t speak. Arya didn’t wipe her mouth. Neither did he.

But the snow from his dream melted and he could remember now. There had been no direwolves. Only a Hound who had licked Nymeria’s face.

Even in her dream – and his – he had run away. Disappeared. Just like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...that happened. Curious to hear your thoughts. Thanks for the kudos and comments :)


	10. Chapter 10

North-East was no longer a viable destination. With each growing snow storm and each passing cloud, it dawned on him more and more how cruelly he would disappoint the little bird by letting her wolf sister die.

He could feign see that melancholy white face, gleaming with misery and beauty, those frosted Northern eyes, spilling bitter tears at his feet, that small cherry mouth, singing a desperate song about a cursed family. The little bird would not reprimand him, would not demand retribution. No, she would sink quietly into herself and bide her time.

How different yet same these Stark girls were. 

“If you want to leave by water, our closest bet is Seagard. The Iron Islands are a threat to everyone on shore, so a common enemy should veil us well enough. Until I get you on a ship.”

They had stopped by the side of the road again, but Arya was still sitting on the horse, chest bent forward, arms spread out over its mane, as if she were embracing the animal one last time. She was exhausted, could barely lift her head. But he knew she was listening.

He went into the bushes and took a leak, all the while keeping his eyes on her.

“You’re coming with,” she mumbled at length.

He was not sure he had heard her right, so when he came back he pretended she had said nothing.

“You are coming with me, aren’t you?” she repeated when she felt his bulging body behind her.

“Aye, taking you as far as Seagard, don’t worry.”

“You know what I mean. You always know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“ _Must_ we have this conversation again?” she demanded imperiously. “Must I beg and snivel at your feet?” _Must you kiss me again?_

The Hound chewed on his lip, spat in the snow and pulled the reins angrily.

“I thought you’d put it out of your head.”

“I’m not easily dissuaded –”

“Really? Never would have believed it,” he replied with sarcasm. But his lips tingled with the memory of having stolen a chaste, dirty kiss.

“You _will_ come with me!”

Sandor’s nostrils flared. “I’m not yours to command and tally around! I’m a free fucking man. I go and do as I please. And I please to send you away from Westeros where you’ll be safe and sound, and you’ll please the same thing when you see the harbour. Don’t fight it girl, there's no other way; you don’t want to go to your aunt, Winterfell is a fucking wreck and I – I am not your friend. You need to get away from all of us. _All_.”

“How noble of you. You’re a free man so you chain me up because you can’t suffer your conscience,” she spat maliciously.

“I am trying to do right, you little bitch!” he retorted, although the wanted harshness in his tone was missing. His voice was hoarse, pleading almost.

“I don’t want you to do the right thing!”

“No, you just want me to abandon everything and follow you on a mad goose chase. If I go with you, you’re dead, girl. Get it through your thick head already. You don’t want to be associated with me.”

 _And I don’t want to abandon everything for you. I don’t want to be associated with you,_ he thought with chagrin.

Arya said no more, but her tiny frame shook with rage as snowflakes melted into her hair.

* * *

 

They reached Blue Fork by nightfall, and on its bank, atop a round hill stood Oldstones, whose ruins gleamed grey and corpse-like into the waters below. Fugitives from Fairmarket and villagers whose towns had been set upon had found refuge at the castle and cheerful fires glowed like quinces, surrounding the battlements. He felt a pang in his chest at the sight of so much yellow.

There were tents and encampments everywhere, but no sign of armed forces, although Sandor was sure the people who dwelt at the foot of crumbling stones were not to be trusted.

Yet Arya was almost half-frozen. He was sure he’d have to cut off at least one frostbitten toe. He dismounted quickly and half-carried her, half-dragged her to one of the fires.

The men and women walked back and forth in a trance, watching them behind lowered hoods but showing no signs of wanting to approach. The Hound looked fierce, ugly and angry and for once he was thankful for his gruesome face.

One young man with an axe at his waist and a thin winter cloak draped over his shoulders started towards them with purpose. Arya shivered on a log in front of the flames, blowing into her fists. Sandor stood before her like the loathsome, faithful dog that he was.

“You come from the South? Any news from King’s Landing?”

The man was light on his feet and wore a cheeky smile on his face, overcast by shadows of hunger and sleeplessness. He inspected them with the ravished look of a lover.

“Aye. King Joffrey has fucked his new queen to death,” Sandor muttered with a leer.

The man began to laugh, but stopped abruptly and checked himself.

“By the Seven Gods, you’ve a foul, cruel mouth. So you heard. It’s all we’ve been talking about.”

Sandor frowned. “What, you mean he really _has_ done that? Wouldn’t surprise me.”

The man seemed disconcerted.

“No...I thought you knew – the King’s dead.”

* * *

 

Those fateful words should have repaired old wounds and made her feel vindicated, but Arya only experienced an empty, disconsolate satisfaction and bitter regret at not having killed him herself.

 _Poison. What an easy way to go_ , she thought grudgingly.

The Hound was greatly amused by the news. He laughed for a while beside her, sitting a good distance away from the fire. He never got too close, if he could manage it.

At length, his laughing subsided and he proceeded to curse the “stupid cunt brat”.

They ate the food Arya had stolen from the brothel. It had gone stale. They stuffed their mouths anyway. The man who had imparted the news had left with promise of bringing back wine and a blanket. 

“Imagine his whore mother crying over the corpse with her lecherous brother, the boy's father.”

Arya dropped the piece of cheese in the snow.

“ _What_?”

Sandor hummed. “So. Tonight is a night of revelations, it seems.”

Arya listened with rapt attention as Sandor revealed to her the plot for which her father had died. The simple, stupid knowledge which had sealed his fate.

At the end of it all, she wanted to heave and empty her belly of the few morsels of food she had swallowed. But the man from before greeted them again and she had to stifle the pain under the coarse woollen blanket he threw around her shoulders.

When they were alone again, Arya bit into the wool.

“I wish I’d killed him with my bare hands. He wasn't – he never should’ve been born. _That's_ why he was so horrid. Cersei and Jaime will pay for what they did.”

“If you had every pair of brother and sister in the land executed for bearing little snotty children, you’d have few people left. It’s something that just happens, especially among lords and ladies. They get bored, they do. And they’re impatient. They can't wait for a proper fuck with a stranger. They want a taste of what’s forbidden,” Sandor replied lazily, touching the hilt of his sword with relish.

Arya shuddered, rubbing her legs to keep warm. She inhaled the pungent smell of smoke and kept it there, inside her lungs.

 “Do you think – do you think _my_ brothers and sister -?”

“No,” he said, too quickly, as if wishing to convince himself too. “No, don’t think so.”

“They could have. When I wasn’t looking. I was just a child.”

"Don't suppose you ever were _just_ a child. You would've noticed."

“Why do they want what’s forbidden?” she asked, muscles growing taut with anticipation. She looked around for him but he was in the shadows.

“Because knowing something can destroy you, makes you want it more.”

* * *

 

As time wore on and the night grew ever colder, her mind grew ever more feverish. He got up and told her he'd find them a tent. Arya thought he would never return. She watched him disappear like Nymeria in a forest of darkness and expected to find herself alone in the morning, next to the cold embers.

She drifted in and out of sleep, tormented by images of her brothers, images of Sansa, kissing, half-naked, rolling in the snow at Winterfell until their skins were red and raw. She saw them running into the hot baths, embracing each other tightly as the steam covered their dirty skin...

The cruel thing, the thing she most abhorred was that her body yearned to join them. She wanted pleasure, she wanted warmth and comfort and young sweet bodies pressed against her own, red hair spilling on her cheek, Robb’s stubble against her stomach, Jon’s big hands on her back –

She gasped and sat up, breathing hard.

No fire. No cold embers. No night.

She was lying on a pile of dead leaves and hay, covered clumsily by boiled leather – the Hound’s leather – and the woollen blanket from before.

He slept next to her on his cloak.

The tent was small, so small that if she were to get up she would bump her head on its archway.

His breathing was terse, almost as if he were dying. Arya wondered if she had woken him up, or if he was ill. She noted the indifference in her own heart. She did not want him dead, or suffering, yet she did not want him alive and well, either. She wondered if he remembered the last time they had slept like this. What she had done. 

She could not close her eyes for fear that her dead family - their naked flesh would come haunting her again.. And yet, if she kept them open, she could only see Joffrey’s twitching face, the pitiful face she imagined he had borne right before death.

“Lie back down.”

So, he was awake after all.

“I can’t.”

“Lie back.”

“I’m scared.”

She heard the scoff in his voice. “We’ve been through hell and back and you’re scared? _Now_?”

It was true she had never admitted to such a thing before, and perhaps by daylight, she would never.

 _I’m scared of a world I don’t know_ , she thought to herself.

“Yes. I don’t want to think of what you told me. But I can’t stop.”

Sandor sighed and turned on his back. She could see his grim mottled face by the weak light of the fires still burning outside.

“I told you many things.”

“Knowing something can destroy you, makes you want it more,” she recited bleakly.

“Foolish nonsense,” he muttered.

“But it won’t let me sleep.”

“I can’t help you there.”

“You can’t?” she asked with a hollow, nervous twist in her voice. “Or you won’t?”

“You shouldn’t –”

“I shouldn’t what?”

There was a tense silence that lasted for several long minutes, during which time she thought he had fallen back asleep, but at length he said,

“You shouldn’t tempt me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun Dun Duuuun. Hi, sorry for the absence, I know it's been a while. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and won't mind the cliffhanger too much. Thanks to everyone for their comments and kudos.


	11. Chapter 11

_“You shouldn’t tempt me.”_

Arya’s small, beating heart surged forward and then stopped dead in the middle of the night. Her breath came out shallow, a wisp of blue smoke. She hugged her knees and thought about a time, long before now, a time when she had slept in Sansa’s room and had watched the girl’s body under moonlight. She remembered Sansa had unveiled herself during the night. She remembered bruised thighs and soft lumps of breast.

 _Why were her thighs bruised?_ she wondered. Then she recalled Sansa had ridden for the first time that day. Arya had resented her for it. _She always got to do everything before me._

“Are you tempted to show me?” she asked the Hound.

Sandor grunted, lifting himself on his elbows. “I am tempted to shut your mouth with the back of my hand.”

“Do you want me?” she asked all of a sudden in the cadence of a child asking for a favorite sweet. “Do you…want me to come closer?”

“No,” was his curt, cold answer.

“We might get warmer.” A trick they had pulled on the road, but which seemed false and forced in this small tent.

“No.”

“It’s not fair,” she breathed out. “It’s not fair.”

“You’ll have to narrow it down. Pretty much everything is fucking unfair.”

“It’s not fair that _she_ is always wanted. I don’t have her looks, but I have her blood. We’re – we’re not so different. But everyone _loves_ her. And it’s so easy to love Sansa. I just don’t understand.”

Sandor now sat up, pulling little bugs out of his scraggly beard.

“Yes, you do. Some people in this world won’t ever be loved. You and I are just two of them.”

Arya scowled. “That’s horseshit.”

“Treat it as you like. It’s the truth and you well know it. Best accept it and move on.”

“Oh, like you have?” she retorted. “You still yearn for my sister.”

“And you still yearn to _be_ her,” he countered gleefully. “We’re a sorry bunch, aren’t we?”

Arya nodded her head bleakly. She was about to lie back down, but at the last moment she twisted her body towards his and said through gritted teeth:

“You said “ _Knowing something can destroy you, makes you want it more”_. She’s never going to be the thing that destroys you. Maybe you don’t want her, after all.”

Sandor paused, feeling an iron heaviness settling in his bones, like the press of a thousand swords on his back.

“You’re a jealous little bitch,” he rasped, clenching his fists.

Arya smiled in the dark. “Yeah, well, you said not to tempt you. Must mean something.”

"Means shut up."

"Means you want to fuck me."

The impact of the slap sent her reeling back. Eyes wide, she looked at the grey canvas of the tent unfolding like wings above her head. Her cheek stung. Her head was ringing. She couldn’t taste blood in her mouth yet, but she had bitten her tongue.

“I don't want to hate you, but you try so hard,” she whispered, touching her jaw gingerly. Everything hurt. And she was not sure if she was safe anymore. Her desire was overwhelming. Not a desire for him, but a desire _through_ him. It made no sense, and yet she knew he held an answer to this maddening chase. If she could make him love her like he loved her sister, she would feel avenged. He was a name on her list, after all.

"I told you, didn't I? Told you, you need to get away from me," he said, blowing hot air in her face. 

The Hound pulled her up against him and cradled her in his arms like a babe. A further offence, a further slight.

She buried her head in his chest and wept silently, because that was what he expected. She did not gasp, she did not breathe, she just forced water out of her eyes for his benefit. 

He caressed her back with calloused hands and let his beard rest atop her head.

“Won’t ever be loved,” he kept whispering against her hair. “Won’t ever be loved.”

They fell asleep in each other’s arms.

* * *

 

He awoke first as dawn broke and the fires went out. He watched her little body swell and die as she slept huddled against his ribs. She was a sorry sight, a miserable gutless urchin, an ugly traveling princess, a snow wolf whose paws had been broken. He let his fingers touch her sodden clothes. She was cold. He brought her closer, rubbed the back of his palm against her stomach.

He was hard. The realization came upon him with shame and disgust. He snuck a hand into his breeches and tried to alleviate the arousal, but he loathed himself too much to finish it, especially since she was breathing into his skin.

Her legs stretched out all of a sudden and propped themselves against his hardness, making him wince. He tried to remove her limbs from his body, but it was like trying to pry his own shadow.

Helpless and alone, he sat there, feeling his dick grow harder and harder as her legs shifted back and forth, almost as if they knew what they were doing. Her eyelids were closed and her face had the pallor of death, but her body had a mind of its own.

She pressed herself further into him, until her legs were straddling him. He gripped her waist, keeping her in place so he could finish faster. She was atop him now, head hanging in the hollow of his neck.

He gripped her harder. Her eyelids were closed. 

He came against her thigh. Fast. A sharp, soft cry. He shielded his face with his fist.

Arya smiled in her sleep. She was riding for the first time in Winterfell. Finally, her sister would stop tormenting her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your comments and kudos.


	12. Chapter 12

The girl did not seem to have the faintest idea he had wanked against her leg.

She would have gloated if she did, but she was taciturn in the grey light of morning. No dry tears on her face, though. No sign she had wept in the night. Her eyes skimmed the battlements of Oldstones with vague interest. They brightened gradually at some idea she was forming in her head. Perhaps a memory of Winterfell. He couldn't tell. She didn't pay him much regard. He was grateful. His body felt heavy and dirty, dirtier than usual, and all he wanted was to dive into the frosted waters of Blue Fork and wipe off the stench of the Starks and the North. Perhaps he should roll in the mud instead. He couldn't look at her face straight. Not for shame, but disgust. She was not a virtuous maiden he could tease. The wolf bitch said cutting things. Foul and lewd words, too. She had, no doubt, heard them exchanged between the crude men around her. He was one of them.

Half-child, half-whore. It was a nasty constitution. As if she had skipped several steps in her growth and she had gone from babe to strumpet. Perhaps children were just as bad. 

He shook his head. This little twerp had had no cock, had fucked no man, had tasted no seed. But she acted like she had, like she knew what it was like. Like she wanted to know. 

_A girl like that shouldn't have such fucking ideas._

He wondered when he'd become a Septon. Overnight, perhaps. But then, Arya Stark still believed her direwolf would come to her and they'd ride together in the sunset, so what the fuck did she know?

He went down to the banks and started washing his face. He didn't think the wolf bitch would prowl without him.

But when he returned - his shaggy hair wet and burned side dappled with drops -, he found her sniffing around some of the camps near the castle. 

Sandor groaned to himself. _She wants a good knocking on the head._

He dragged his feet reluctantly to one of the tents where Arya was talking animatedly to a young girl who could've been Sansa's age. She looked just as gaunt and famished as the rest, but her green eyes were quite pretty to look at. Pity she was good as dead. The girl took a step back warily when she saw him coming towards them.

Arya glanced over her shoulder and laughed.

Sandor was stunted. The sound was harsh and sweet, like a blade, culled against a stone block. The wolf bitch's face was contracted and small. Mirth didn't suit her at all. For a moment he did not move. He stood in the middle of the trodden path and let the villagers walk past him. 

"Oh, that's just the Pup. He doesn't bite. Much," Arya explained, eyeing him with amusement. 

It took him some moments to realize she was laughing at his wet hair.

_The Pup. I'll give her a bloody pup._

He grumbled under his breath and steadied his hand on the pommel of his sword as he made his way to them.

"Are you a Knight, Ser?" the green-eyed girl muttered, curtsying with shaking legs.

"Oh, yes. The best knight House Manderly can offer," Arya spoke quickly before he had the chance to reply. Years in King's Landing had trained him not to show surprise, but he shifted slightly on his legs.

The green-eyed girl smiled a tremulous smile. "I've never met a knight before. Or someone from a lordly House."

"Today is your lucky day, then..." he grunted, showing his vexation by glaring at the back of Arya's skull. 

"Mind you, he was just Lord Wyman's captain of the guards until Robb Stark knighted him, moons before he died," she added conspiratorially, and the dimwitted girl gasped in wonder.

"He fought alongside the King in the North?" she half-whispered. 

"Oh, yes. That's where he got his name, the Pup -"

"M'lady!" Sandor growled, eyes glinting with anger. He stepped forward and placed a heavy hand on her bony shoulder. "Who might be your new _friend_?"

"This is Bryar. She's one of the camp's best seamstresses," Arya offered confidently.

The girl blushed. "That's hardly true."

"But you've made this dress yourself, didn't you?" Arya said, pointing at the girl's drab clothes. 

Sandor felt infinite pity for the poor creature. She was kind and gentle, he could tell. Not like this scheming wretch beside him.

"Yes, thank you. I - I should go fetch more water, but I'll come by your tent with the promised garment, m-m'lady. _Ser_."

Bryar fled towards the river bank with her cheeks aflame. 

Sandor grabbed Arya's elbow. "You little bitch, I should pry your fucking tongue out -"

"Cool your head, _Pup_. I've been doing your work for you. We don't have much chance of reaching Seagard or _anywhere_ unless we join a group. Or at least make peace with the one we've met. I don't like it any more than you do, but it's common sense, no?"

"And you had to spout high lies that could get us _killed_?" 

"It's not all lies. I am, after all, high-born. And Robb is - _was_ my brother. Do you think I told her that stuff for nothing? This whole camp was chased off by Lannisters. They hate their guts. I made sure to find out. They're faithful to the North."

"They're faithful to bread, you stupid child. And now that they know we've come from a good House, they'll skin us alive -"

"If anyone's stupid it's you! Didn't you hear me? I said we're from House Manderly. Remember those poor bastards on the road? Do you think these Northerners don't know the Manderlies are not faring better than them? Bryar figured we're refuges, but at least now we have some credibility. And we're not seen as a threat," she spat, moving her elbow out of his grasp. "Now, be a good Knight and follow me around without acting like a complete _ass_."

Sandor couldn't believe his ears. In fact, he was pretty sure they were burning. He wanted to slap every bit of nonsense out of her, but too many people were watching for his leisure. If only she _had_ been a stupid child. It would've made things easier. But she'd _had_ to be clever. She'd had to come up with a fucking plan. _Bloody Starks._

"I thought you hated being a Lady," he snapped, forehead throbbing with anger.

"I'm not a Lady. I'm the master-at-arms' daughter. But my father isn't here. So you'll have to do."

Sandor laughed bitterly. "You made up a little story and you think these people will believe you."

"They will, if you shut your mouth and start acting like the _Hound_ I knew in King's Landing. The one who wasn't a sorry waste of a man?"

Her voice was so brittle, yet so poised that for a moment he understood how she'd convinced Bryar she was not just another peasant girl. Arya Stark would always sound like a bloody highborn, no matter how much she tried to cuss and swear. She had the fast tongue of someone used to demanding. 

"Oh, I'll enjoy skinning you alive when this is all over," he replied nastily. 

* * *

 

He wouldn't admit to himself she'd a good idea. Because it _wasn't_. The campers still looked at them as if they were strangers, but word had spread fast of their origin. Arya had made sure to talk to some other gullible villagers and plant the seed of sympathy. She was annoyingly good at playing the fiddle. His armor, though splintered and weather-worn, went a long way in proving her tale. His long sword was no trifling thing either.

"There, now you look more like a real _killer_ ," she teased him after he helped two men lift a cart which had got stuck in the mud. He pulled the wheels so savagely that some of the villagers stopped to gape. He was fueled by his outrage. 

"And, you know they'll help us because when this is over, House Manderly will repay them nicely," she whispered to him over the cooking fire, later in the afternoon. 

"Bugger off. If they don't kill us in the middle of the night, that'll be something."

"They'll nick you first." She smiled at him meanly, the kind of smile that belonged to the Children of the Forest. Wicked and terrible.

And he realized with a dreadful pang that - she had missed being with people. Her people. She still had that downcast shadow about her eyes and limbs, but when she scampered off with Bryar to the river, she looked lighter. He envied her. She moved so easily from sorrow to childhood. A good thing, perhaps, but he still wanted to crack her skull open.

Dusk fell on the old castle and the golden light looked winter-soft. It smelled like snow, but he was not cold. In fact, it was surprisingly warm for that time of the day. He lumbered away from the tents and went to take a piss.

His mind was elsewhere - thoughts running about without aim - for he wandered astray through the brambles and bushes and stopped right in front of the wolf bitch. 

She didn't see him. 

She was swimming in the river. 

_Stupid bitch, she'll die of a cold before the night is over. Or drown._

She rose suddenly and crawled atop a small rock which stood like sentry in the middle of the rapid waters.

She was naked. He had hoped she would keep her clothes. Her small breasts rose and fell with the excitement of exercise. She stretched her legs and arms like a cat. The hair between her legs looked soft and all too womanly for her own good. She raised one knee, almost as if she knew he was watching, and looked up at the falling night. She was shivering all over. 

Ugly little thing. Child-strumpet. 

Just what a lady would do. 

He pissed long and hard. 

* * *

 

Bryar stopped in front of their tent, panting, and presented the little lady a roughspun tunic. 

"Isn't she very good, Pup?" Arya asked, still shivering, swaddled in his cloak. 

"Very good, indeed," he pronounced grimly, and turned his head when the wolf bitch started to undress.

She put on her new garment. He could still see the small breasts jerking against the cool air even though she was now wrapped in several thick layers of cloth.

He left the tent in search for some wine. And maybe some cunny. Anything to wipe off the Starks and the North. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your comments and kudos. The story, as always, ventures into creepy territory.


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